


There's a Song (and some magic) For That

by royaltyjunk



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 13:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19274068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royaltyjunk/pseuds/royaltyjunk
Summary: [Band!AU] Music and magic don’t usually mix well. Usually. Primrose and Therion have other ideas, though.





	There's a Song (and some magic) For That

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Ideas: Please end me now???? I literally only wrote this for shits and giggles and it ended up being so long I had to split it into two chapters  
> By the way this has zero connection with that one promotional art of the travelers as a band this is just me messing around  
> The song links don't work, I'll fix them later. If you want, just google the lyrics I quoted

Therion spent his twenty-second-and-a-half birthday throwing soda cans and aggressively pounding out old Twin Blades tracks on the drum.

“Everyone’s gonna think you’re insane,” Tressa commented. The chords she was plucking out on her guitar sounded simple in comparison to what Therion was doing, although anyone learning guitar would tell you what Tressa was doing was the opposite of simple.

“They already think I am,” he retorted. “Besides, Prim soundproofed the basement weeks ago.”

“Where is she, anyways?”

“She said something about meeting up with an old friend.”

“Yusufa?”

“No. Someone else. A guy. Said she knew him when she was a kid, before her dad died. Not Simeon, thank Aeber.”

“Good. Fuck him,” Tressa said proudly.

“Language.”

She picked up one of his soda cans and threw it back at him. Therion pointedly ignored the can and drummed the opening sequence to the aptly-named song _Battle I_.

~ / . / . / ~

Cyrus’s hands were really nice. Had they always been that way?

“Do you still play piano?” Primrose questioned, picking at her salad with her fork.

“I do,” Cyrus responded, smiling. Sealticge, he was hot. She couldn’t quite call it a glow-up because he’d been cute when they were children, but it was the closest word she could think of to describe how he’d changed. “Although, the keyboard has been my more profitable choice of instrument.”

“Makes sense.” Her eyes strayed to his hand, drumming along the tabletop as he took a sip of water. They seemed to be made for banging incessantly on keys while looking immaculate. Most people’s hands looked pudgy and gnarled with cut cuticles (hers included), but his seemed to be the opposite.

“Yes. It’s a shame most bands don’t require a keyboardist.”

The gears were already beginning to turn in Primrose’s head. “...Are you free sometime next week?”

“Yes! I must have neglected to mention, but the university I am teaching at is currently on spring break. Anytime in the afternoon is alright with me.”

He was a professor. Of course he was. “Then… Wednesday afternoon?” Tressa’s also on spring break, and Therion only broke into (for lack of a better word) Cordelia’s house on Tuesdays and Thursdays. “I have some friends I think you should meet.”

“I’d be glad to come.”

“...I’m glad you asked me to meet up,” Primrose admitted. “I forgot what it was like.”

If he knew what she meant, he didn’t show it.

~ / . / . / ~

“You terrify me,” Therion said. Primrose just laughed.

Cyrus Albright, it turned out, was a musical genius. He knew music theory down to the nitty gritty, could identify any notes and the key signature upon listening, and could list out the entire history of a musical instrument if prompted. It was like magic, really, the way he remembered everything.

“How the hell did you convince _him_ to practice with us?”

They both knew how. Just like how people never noticed Therion when he stood among the shadows, people always noticed Primrose. They were drawn to her, as if she were a siren drawing men to their deaths—well, not really. But it was something like that.

“Holy fuck, Primrose.”

“I’m just that powerful.” She winked before a serious look settled on her face. “I’m serious, though. He’s going to be a lot of help.”

“Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’m really glad we got him before anyone else did.”

“Hello?” Tressa yelled. “Are we practicing or not?” She punctuated her words with a full strum of her guitar. Therion resisted the urge to sink into the shadows and sneak up on her, instead turning the corner and walking directly to his drum set.

“What are we playing?” Cyrus asked, standing up from the couch and moving to the keyboard.

“How about Sea Wolf?”

Without a word, Therion began the opening notes. A rush of nostalgia flooded his veins. He almost laughed at the familiarity of it all.

“Just listen along,” Primrose said to Cyrus as Tressa joined in. “You’ll pick up on it. **_Old friend, come back home..._** ”

~ / . / . / ~

“Professor Albright?” Cordelia giggled. “Like, my musical history professor?”

“Well, he didn’t tell me he taught at the Atlasdam branch of the Royal Academy,” Therion huffed. “He’s a damn good pianist, though. Also knows like… everything technical about music that I don’t know. I just don’t know why he agreed to join us.”

“The professor always did say that he wanted to join a real band, if only for experience.”

“I wouldn’t say we’re a real band,” Therion said, propping himself up on one arm.

“Oh, come on, Therion.” Cordelia turned her head to look at him, an exasperated look on her face. “We’ve been over this before.”

“I mean, yes, we are a real band, but we aren’t… really… one. We don’t even have a name, and we just got a keyboardist to join.”

“So? At least you’re on your way to becoming a band. You’re on your way to achieving your dreams.” Cordelia’s face softened. “Remember when we would stay up, and you would talk about how you wanted to start a band with Primrose and maybe even Tressa?”

“I’d talk about lyrics for songs I wanted to write, and then sing them to you until you fell asleep?” Therion’s lips curled up into a smile. “Of course I remember.” He ran his thumb along Cordelia’s cheek. “How could I forget?”

“Look at how far you’ve come, Therion,” she prompted gently, covering his hand with one of hers. “You’re amazing. Please, never forget that.”

“...Thanks,” he murmured, and laid back down. She curled up beside him, and he could feel her smiling. “Are you ever gonna fix the security system?”

“Maybe if you stop insisting on sneaking in through my windows, I will.”

“Heathcote’s scary.”

“He caught you one time, Therion.”

“That’s one too many times.”

Cordelia laughed and pulled the comforter over herself, turning away from him. “I’m going to sleep. When you leave, go through the front door.”

“That’s assuming I’m going to leave,” he murmured, edging himself under her covers. He placed his hands on her shoulders, and when she didn’t protest, he pulled her into a hug.

“Night,” she mumbled.

“Good night,” he replied. He wondered how he’d gotten the world’s greatest person to be his girlfriend. Whatever. He could ponder that in the morning.

~ / . / . / ~

Some twelve years ago, Twin Blades came out with their first album under the famous record label Hornburg. Although nothing else about the duo had guaranteed success, they had achieved it to record-breaking heights. By the end of its debut week, _Highlands_ had sold over two million copies.

Seemingly overnight, Erhardt went from being known as “that one backup vocalist who left the Black Brotherhood a few years ago” to “one of the best vocalists and pianists in the world”, and Olberic Eisenberg went from being one of Hornburg’s throwaway freelance musicians and vocalists to one of their most valued ones.

Primrose was just eleven then, but Twin Blades had shaped her life. She had begun taking vocal lessons, and practiced dance seriously. Music became her life, kept her alive the years after her father had been murdered.

Twin Blades continued to be the dominating force in the music industry. Nine years ago, they had been at their peak. Albums like _Challenge_ and _Divine Blade_ kept them at their kingly status. If you had asked fourteen-year-old Primrose about them, she would’ve looked you dead in the eye and first told you to get out of her way why were you asking her that (fourteen-year-old her was an edgy girl), and then listed out every song Twin Blades had ever produced in order and the exact date they were released on.

Their four-year anniversary came, their new album _Unbending_ dropped, and shit hit the fan. That morning, Erhardt filed an official lawsuit against Hornburg Music Group, full of physical evidence of the corruption and mistreatment he was charging them with. It blew up. Other bands and music groups began pulling out of their contracts. The next week, Hornburg Music Group filed for bankruptcy.

And then that was it. Twin Blades disbanded, leaving people with nothing but their legacy. A lot of people had tried to replace them in the time since—a lot. But it was never the same, to Primrose or to anyone else.

Erhardt, apparently, went to work as a music executive for Marsalim Music Productions, approving contracts and signing record deals. Some people were obnoxious about it. Some people couldn’t care less. If Primrose was being honest, she probably fell somewhere in the middle.

Olberic Eisenberg faded out of the music world. Sometimes people said they saw him up in the mountains, in some little town no one knew the name of. But no one really wanted to go find him. They were all too busy trying to replace him.

Primrose had never wanted to replace them, but she had always hoped to be some kind of successor to them. For so long, it had seemed impossible. Like a dream, too far out there for her to reach.

~ / . / . / ~

“You got us a gig at The Tavern?” Tressa asked, her mouth hanging open.

“Cyrus and I worked together to do it, but yes. We’re playing on Friday night and Sunday night next week.”

“You give me too much credit,” Cyrus said, laughing. “As soon as you walked inside the bar behind me, they were smitten.”

“Well, I try my best,” Primrose replied, winking. Therion snorted and leaned against the wall, sinking into the shadows. “We’ll be there from seven until one in the morning on Friday, and from seven until eleven on Sunday. If we do well, they said they might consider having us over as regulars.”

“We ought to decide which songs we will play,” Cyrus stated, leaning back against the couch. Tressa sighed, her hair fluttering around her.

“Can’t we warm up first? I just want to play something.”

“Sure,” Primrose said, letting Cyrus help her up. “Therion, get out from there.”

“...Can we play some Twin Blades stuff?” He leaned in to ask Primrose. She blinked and then hid her laugh behind her hand.

“You’re the biggest fanboy I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up, self-proclaimed number one Twin Blades fan.”

~ / . / . / ~

The Tavern was a high-end bar that liked to present itself as having a casual atmosphere. It’s a chain bar, but that didn’t make it any less amazing. And besides, the number of bars they had around all of Orsterra was some low number like twenty-four. To be invited to play at it was more than an honor.

“Nervous?” Therion inquired as he bit into an apple (where the hell did he keep getting those from?). Primrose adjusted her jean jacket and sighed.

“A little,” she admitted, looking at herself in the mirror. She rested a hand on her hat and turned to look at Therion. “But I know we’ll be fine.”

“You think?” he responded sarcastically. “We have you. People can’t resist you, Primrose.”

“I think Tressa might be the same.” She spun around, examining each part of her outfit. She was particularly proud of this one. “Hey, guess which aesthetic I tried to go for.”

“Grunge punk,” he replied without hesitation. “I told you, you pull it off really well. What were you saying about Tressa?”

“I think she might have the same thing as I do. Not on the same level, but it’s definitely there.”

Therion grunted noncommittally.

“Primrose,” Cyrus prompted, pulling the curtains back slightly as he walked backstage. Tressa followed him. “All the equipment’s been checked. We’ll be going up soon. We need a name for them to introduce us with.”

“Shit,” Primrose swore. Therion pulled at his hoodie, so ratty that it was held together by safety pins. She’d have to buy him a new one.

“...Project,” Therion said after a moment of stumped silence from everyone. “Tell them to call us ‘Project’.”

“Oh, I like that!” Tressa piped up.

“Project,” Primrose murmured, and then nodded. “Yeah. Project.”

~ / . / . / ~

“You are definitely not supposed to be here,” Therion grumbled as he hugged Cordelia.

“Heathcote _will_ kill me if he finds out,” Cordelia agreed. Something fluttered in his heart when she leaned back to look him in the eye, mischief dancing in hers. “So I’m counting on you to help me.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you know that ‘boyfriend’ is not synonymous with ‘partner in crime’.”

“You were amazing,” she murmured. “I’d planned to only stay until eleven, but you guys were so good I couldn’t leave.”

Therion doubted it was anyone other than Primrose’s doing, but he was glad. The few times he had looked up from his drum set, the audience had been nodding along. He hadn’t even needed to look up as the set went on; he could hear them shouting along with Primrose as she sang songs, old and new.

“Why ‘Project’ though?” Cordelia asked. Therion shrugged, letting his hands fall from around her shoulders. She took them in hers.

“I just thought… I mean, this is like a work in progress that’s been going on for so long. ‘Project’ was the only way I could describe it. Being in a band, I mean.”

“I like it.”

“You like everything I do.”

“Because everything you do is amazing, Therion.”

Therion felt a corner of his mouth twitch, curving upwards into a smirk. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss onto Cordelia’s forehead. “...Thanks.”

Cordelia just giggled and nodded.

“Cordy!” Tressa screamed. She dashed past Therion and barreled into Cordelia, leaving a windstorm in her wake. Therion winced, turning away and combing his hand through his even-more-disheveled hair.

“You were amazing, Tressa!” Cordelia said, hugging her friend. “Noa couldn’t come. Her leg started acting up again.”

“You came alone?” Tressa gasped, and hugged Cordelia tighter. “Oh my Bifelgen! Are you okay?”

“I’m here! I’m fine!” Cordelia laughed.

Therion glanced around, letting the fatigue he had been pushing away finally take over him. He slumped into the couch, sighing. They’d done it, but Aeber, that was exhausting.

“Cordelia,” he mumbled, “do you want to stay over?”

“Sure,” she replied, sitting down beside him. He leaned his head against her shoulder, sighing.

“Where’s Prim?”

“She and Cyrus left,” Tressa said, in the midst of packing up her guitar. “She said something about staying the night with him. Cordy, can I get a ride back to the dorms?”

Therion frowned. “What? Why would she do that?”

“Don’t ask me. She wouldn’t say.” Tressa slung her guitar over her shoulder. Therion felt a sting of annoyance, but quashed it. Primrose’s life wasn’t his to control. She could do whatever she wanted—she made damn sure people knew that. “Should we go?”

“Yeah,” Therion agreed, grunting as he stood up. How Tressa was still able to function, he had no clue. Cordelia let him lean against her, helping him out of the bar.

“When was the last time you slept?” Tressa asked.

“Uh… I pulled an all-nighter last night, so probably the day before yesterday? Honestly, Tressa, I couldn’t tell you.” His mind was a jumble of exhaustion and adrenaline that was slowly wearing off.

“I thought so,” Tressa sighed. “Here, Cordy. I’ll drive.”

“No, I can—”

“You know how Therion gets when he’s sleep-deprived.” And that was the final nail in the (his) coffin. Fucking thanks, Tressa—he was too tired to even try and say it out loud.

Cordelia handed the car keys to Tressa, helping Therion into the backseat. God, now Hardest of Hearts was stuck in his head. **_But you’ll never know what a fool I’ve been—_**

“I’ll be better than Darius ever was,” he whispered deliriously. Cordelia ran her fingers through his hair and kissed his temple.

“You already are.”

~ / . / . / ~

Cyrus was gentle and a little too hesitant and every time he touched her it felt different, and she knew she shouldn’t be doing this because they were moving way too fast and this was the kind of stuff that consistently broke up bands, but suffice to say both of them knew last night was not going to be their final night together.

She woke up at noon the next day, hair strewn all over the pillow. The other pillow was at her feet, and Cyrus had somehow changed the sheets without waking her. She pulled the comforters around herself, getting up when the door opened.

“Hey,” she murmured when he walked into the bedroom. He gave her a small smile as he closed the door behind him. She approached him.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted, although she could sense hesitation in his voice. She took his face in her hands and kissed him firmly. “About last night—” he began.

Primrose laughed lowly. “I wouldn’t mind if we did that more.”

Cyrus smiled. “I was going to ask if it was okay that we did it at my house. Therion has been calling your phone frantically since ten o’clock.”

Primrose groaned and turned to walk away, slinking towards the bathroom. “If he calls again, tell him I hate his guts. I’m going to shower.”

The sound of his throat clearing made her look back. Cyrus’s hand circled her wrist, and sparks ran through her nerves—there it was again. He pressed a light kiss to her lips. “My apologies,” he said in a soft voice after a moment of silence.

“What for?” she asked.

Cyrus opened his mouth to respond, a strange look in his eyes.

“Professor!” An unfamiliar voice interrupted.

“Hold for a moment, Alfyn!” Cyrus called. Primrose arched an eyebrow. “A few of my students. I was in the midst of tutoring them when you woke up.”

“Well, you should go,” she laughed, pushing him away. He glanced at her fondly, and then let a smile take over his lips.

“You should come meet them when you finish showering. I think you will like them.”

~ / . / . / ~

Primrose was literally glowing when she came back.

“How was it?” Therion asked, barely able to hide his smirk. Oh, he had _so_ much blackmail material on her now. He was never going to let this go.

“It was good, thank you.”

“Well, it couldn’t have been just ‘good’ because you’re deadass blinding me with how much you’re glowing.”

Primrose frowned, glancing at her feet and the conspicuous lack of shadow beneath them before sighing. Sometimes, Therion felt like he could read her too easily. “Do you think he noticed?”

“Do you think he cared? You were in his bed, Prim.”

“Yeah, and I heard Cordelia was in yours last night.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Primrose hit his arm as she dropped her bag to the floor and slid over him, resting her legs on his lap. “Hey. How do you feel about adding two more people to our band?”

Therion arched an eyebrow. “Who are they?”

“They’re both Cyrus’s students. One’s a bassist, and the other’s a vocalist.”

Therion paused, tilting his head. “...Maybe. We’ll have to invite them to practice after we get done with our gigs at The Tavern.”

“Sure.” She took up her phone, staring at the screen before breaking into a smile. He tickled the bottom of her foot, cackling when she kicked at him.

“Are you texting Cyrus?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“To me, sure.” Therion stared at her. “But I’ve known you for like, nine years, so.”

“Ten years, but yeah.”

“Fuck, it’s been ten years?”

They met at the orphanage in Sunshade, a large city in the desert some hours down south. Primrose had been sent there after her father was murdered; Therion had been forced into it after Darius had reported him to the local authorities because he was a “minor living on his own” (as if he wasn’t the one who had ditched said minor).

They arrived on the same day and had been forced to live in the same room. Ever since then, they were inseparable. After Primrose had turned eighteen and received her inheritance, they had both packed up their bags and left for Noblecourt—never bothering to look back. Therion had never felt regretful about their choice to do so.

“Yeah. Do you know what month it is, Therion?”

“Honestly? Uh… I’m gonna guess the beginning of March.”

“It’s the middle of April.”

“Fuck.”

“I feel like you just disassociate for days on end.”

“Believable.” It really was. He stayed up until four in the morning almost every day, woke up four hours later, repeated it, and then a week later would crash and burn for two days when his body could not keep up with this hellish lifestyle. And then he would fall back into the same routine.

“...Therion?”

“What?”

“Love you.”

“...Love you too.”

~ / . / . / ~

Sunday night was the same as Friday, except Primrose couldn’t help but feel sorry for the triplet going upstage after them because all the eyes remained on her as all four members of Project took seats at the bar counter.

“Please stop making people stare at us,” Therion mumbled in her ear. She shoved her shoulder into his.

“Look, I can’t do anything about it. You’ve had to live with this for ten years, you can survive.” She raised a hand, flagging down the bartender. “One old fashioned, please.”

Cyrus shook his head, smiling. He shifted in his seat and his hand brushed against hers, sending chills down her spine.

“I’ll take a glass of whiskey,” Therion added, nodding.

“Could I have a glass of lemonade?” Tressa requested. “Add a maraschino cherry in there, as well.” Primrose laughed.

“That’s such a Tressa thing to ask for,” she commented. Tressa frowned.

“What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”

“Nothing,” Therion replied, his voice as cynical as always. When had he never been cynical? Well, she supposed being with Cordelia made him act less so, but she doubted that sassy attitude of his never really went away.

“Don’t do that. You’ll wrinkle your face.” Primrose reached over to pat Tressa’s cheek. Tressa pulled away, sticking her tongue out.

“I’ll do it all I want, _Mom_.” Kids these days. Primrose just settled back into her seat, smiling.

“Twas quite a good show,” the bartender complimented. All of their eyes snapped to the woman, in the midst of pouring out Primrose’s drink into a cup.

“You think so?” Tressa squeaked eagerly. The bartender nodded.

“Quite. I am sure the owners will be pleased with your performances these last few days.” The pink-haired woman placed Primrose’s drink before her. “Here you are.”

“Thank you,” she nodded. “I’m Primrose. This is Cyrus, Therion, and Tressa.”

“I am H’aanit.” The accent with which H’aanit spoke her name told Primrose that H’aanit was surely from the tribal village of S’waarki. “And for you two.” She placed down two glasses, one full of whiskey and the other full of lemonade, topped with a maraschino cherry.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” Primrose inquired, glancing at Cyrus. He chuckled, resting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing. His fingers felt as hot as fire.

“I’m sure, Primrose.”

“...Okay,” she murmured, taking a sip from her drink. In the background, she could hear the people onstage starting up another song. H’aanit glanced up, sighing and shaking her head as she wiped down a glass.

“Tis truly disappointing.”

Therion grunted in agreement, fingers flying across his phone. Primrose glanced at him, contemplating the sight for a split second. An urge to bug him arose in her, but she pushed it down.

“Were they better before?” Cyrus inquired. Primrose turned her attention towards them.

“I suppose. They’ve always performed well. I believe that the pressure of going after you is simply getting to them.”

Primrose arched an eyebrow. “Are we really that good?” She doubted it—realistically, it was probably because of her self-doubt, but she really did doubt that they were that impressive to other people.

“As a fellow musician, your skills are extremely impressive.”

All four of their gazes immediately turned to H’aanit, and Primrose felt a rush of excitement ripple through all of them.

“What do you play?” Tressa asked excitedly, leaning forward.

“A number of string instruments, although I am more skilled with the violin and harp than any other.”

Calmly, Cyrus reached for her drink. When he touched it, the frost along the edge of the glass seemed to grow. Primrose watched with careful eyes as he took a sip and offered the cup to her. When she took it and grazed her fingers against his, a spark seemed to run through her body. He really was magical.

“Oh, that’s so cool!” Tressa smiled, completely oblivious. Primrose turned away quickly, feeling her nerves start with the sense that Cyrus was watching her. “Do you still practice regularly?”

“Indeed. Occasionally, Master says I ought to devote my time elsewhere and that he has already taught me everything I need to know, but I doubt it.”

“...Are you free this week?” Primrose asked. She was beginning to think that that question really was the best way to start a band.

~ / . / . / ~

“Alright, go around in a circle,” Primrose stated. “I’ll go first. Hello. I’m Primrose Azelhart, and I’m the lead singer of Project.”

There was silence. Therion blinked, sharing a glance with Cyrus who sat on the other side of Primrose.

“I can—” Cyrus began, but Primrose pointed at Therion.

“This way.”

Therion rolled his eyes and brushed his hair out of his right eye. “Hi. Therion Esquivel. I’m the drummer of Project.”

“Hey! I’m Tressa Colzione, and I’m the guitarist of Project! I’m also a student at the Royal Academy!”

“I am H’aanit. I play string instruments. I work at The Tavern on weekends and run a café on the weekdays.”

“Hello, I’m Ophilia Clement. I am a vocalist, and I help H’aanit with her café.”

“Yo. I’m Alfyn Greengrass—” someone snickered, probably Tressa, and Alfyn laughed along good-naturedly. “Aw, come on, Tress. Anyways, I’m a bassist, and I also study at the Royal Academy.” Therion kept his eyes on his hands instead of looking up at the newcomers; all he had managed to catch was a head of long golden hair and a green jacket. As much as Cordelia and Primrose had helped with his issue of trusting others, the past would never truly leave him.

“Hello. My name is Cyrus Albright, and I’m the pianist of Project. I’m a professor at the Royal Academy.”

“You’re too formal,” Primrose commented, pushing her shoulder into his. Therion rolled his eyes, and despite the slight feeling of exasperation he let himself smile out of joy.

“Are we just going to run practice like we usually do?” Tressa asked.

“Yes, but we’ll pull some of you guys to join us,” Primrose answered, gesturing to the three newcomers. “Ophilia, we’ll have you join us first. Tressa, Therion, come on. I’ll call when I need you, Cyrus.” Primrose got up to hop up onto the makeshift stage in her basement, and Ophilia and Tressa trailed after her. Like puppies, Therion thought, and then snorted and pulled at Primrose’s elbow.

“Stop charming everyone you invite into the band.”

“I’m not,” Primrose replied, rolling her eyes. “But no, you don’t believe me.”

“Yeah, because you _do_.” He pushed her lightly with his elbow, and she pushed back.

“...Don’t you think it’s kind of crazy?” Primrose murmured. “That we’re finally getting to be a real band. A year ago, it was only the two of us.”

“It’s really crazy,” Therion admitted. He himself had thought about it a lot. There really was no discernable point in time where everything had changed. He had been alone, and then all of sudden he wasn’t. He could trust no one, and then suddenly he had two best friends and a girlfriend.

“Come on,” Primrose urged, smiling as she tugged at his hand. “We’ve got a band to run.”

It still sounded weird, even after all this time.

~ / . / . / ~

“Olberic Eisenberg messaged me the other day. I invited him to our show,” Cyrus said nonchalantly, as though he were asking for a glass of water or telling her the weather.

Primrose choked on nothing, gasping violently. “You _what_!? And how do you know him!?”

“Oh, did I not tell you? I interned at Hornburg Music Productions during the last two summers of his career as a part of Twin Blades. We became well-acquaintanced in that time, although I thought I had lost contact with him until a few days ago.”

“No, you didn’t tell me,” Primrose replied, scowling. It was too early in the morning for her to even feel anything, let alone have a near-death experience reacting to Cyrus knowing _the person who basically formed her life_. “Which show did you invite him?”

“Saturday. All of us will be performing and he is arriving that morning, so that would be the best day for him to see us.” After their last two gigs, The Tavern had very quickly offered them spots to perform on all weekend evenings. All of them performed on Friday and Saturday, but finding time to perform Sunday nights to early Monday mornings when most of them were students or people with jobs was difficult. 

Primrose sighed, running a hand down her face. “Yeah, that’s fine. Just… I don’t know, warn me before you drop stuff like that on me. You almost killed me.”

“Oh, my apologies.”

“What was he like?” Primrose asked, leaning over the side of the bed to find her discarded clothing.

“He was very stoic and chivalrous. Very much like a knight, I suppose. Erhardt was very much the same, although Erhardt was much more out-spoken than Olberic was.”

“...Do you ever wonder why Erhardt did what he did?”

Cyrus was silent for a moment. “I do.”

“Do you know why?”

“I’m not sure anyone knows, Primrose. Perhaps not even Erhardt himself.” The forlorn look on Cyrus’s face made her heart twist with something she couldn’t identify.

~ / . / . / ~

“Are you shitting me.”

“My, but you have not changed a bit,” Cyrus was saying, speaking to _Olberic fucking Eisenberg_. Olberic laughed, voice low and gravelly and full of the raw emotion he’d poured into bloody screams back when he made music.

“And neither have you, Cyrus. It is nice to see you again. This is your band?”

“Project, yes. It is not truly my band. I am simply a member. Therion and Primrose formed the band, and have been working on it ever since.” Cyrus, ever oblivious to the screaming mess Therion was on the inside, gestured to him. “Primrose is setting up, but Therion is here.” Would the world ever let him live in peace? Clearly not.

“Hi,” Therion greeted, waving hesitantly. Don’t sink into the shadows, don’t sink into the shadows, don’t—

“Nice to meet you.” Olberic smiled. “I am—”

“Olberic Eisenberg, yeah, I know,” Therion blurted out, and then immediately wanted to take it back. “Uh. Shit. Sorry.” Aeber, please come down and shoot him right.

Olberic blinked, and then laughed. “It seems I am still well-known in the world of music.”

“Not—I mean—I… I listened to your music when I was a kid. You really shaped my world, and also Prim’s. Honestly, you’re the whole reason we’re doing this. So, um… yeah. Thanks.”

“Well, Therion, I’m glad that I could encourage you.” Olberic smiled, and then stepped forward to rest a hand on Therion’s shoulder. Therion was definitely hyperventilating. “It always does me good to see the younger generation rising up and redefining music. With such a passionate heart as yours, I am sure your band will do well in the music industry.” He turned to look at Cyrus. “You are all quite fortunate to have such dedicated leaders.”

Therion could feel his face turning red and he lowered his gaze, pulling his scarf up to his mouth. “...Thanks,” he mumbled.

Olberic squeezed his shoulder. “No need for it, my boy. Go on, now. Enjoy the music. Perhaps one day, we’ll meet again.”

And when Therion banged out notes on his drum set, head moving to the beat as Primrose and Ophilia wove tales of how **_they (he) couldn’t breathe but they (he) wanted to say goodbye to apathy_** , he looked out into the crowd, met Olberic’s gaze and smiled.

~ / . / . / ~

The anniversary of Simeon’s conviction as both her father’s murderer and her sexual abuser was today. Normally, she didn’t leave her house. Normally, she sat in the living room and had deep conversations with Therion.

But there had been nothing “normal” about the last year, and there certainly wouldn’t be anything “normal” about the rest of her life.

“I suppose I should cut straight to the point,” Olberic said, looking Primrose in the eye. “To tell the truth, I have been looking for a band to join for the past year and a half or so, and I believe I have finally found the right one.”

“You mean—”

“The way everyone in Project loves music passionately, and strive to work together to better each other… it reminds me of when I made music. It makes me feel reenergized, recharged. I would like nothing more than to be a part of the revolution I know your band will start.”

“...Of course.” Primrose smiled. “Of course you are welcome to join us, Olberic.”

Later that night, Therion collapsed on her lap, mumbling, “Octopath,” before falling asleep. All eight of them stared at him.

“...Octopath,” Cyrus murmured, and then got that (very cute) bright look in his eyes whenever he was able to deduce something. “All the first letters of our names spell out ‘Octopath’.”

“Project Octopath,” Primrose said.

“I like it,” Tressa commented, swinging her legs over the side of the couch and standing up. H’aanit and Ophilia nodded in agreement. “So! Now that we’re a full-fledged band, what’re we going to do?”

Primrose laughed. “Why, Tressa, what else is there to do when you have a full-fledged band and everyone’s going to be on summer vacation soon?”

“Does that mean…?” Alfyn began, leaning forward with twinkling eyes.

“Get ready, Project Octopath. We’re going on tour.”


End file.
